


like wild horses when they run

by goldfishtobleroneandamitie



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Biker AU, I'm pretty sure this counts as stockholm syndrome, M/M, TW: Blood, biker!grantaire, dancer!enjolras, do I need to warn for stupid sex decisions, enjolras was a charming young man capable of being terrible, how angsty do you like your e/R, tw: implied abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishtobleroneandamitie/pseuds/goldfishtobleroneandamitie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Art is what keeps him human, now. That, and the open road. It’s pretty easy to stay sober when you know your life and livelihood depend on a bike—with no walls of steel or air bags to protect you. </p><p>Or, that AU where Grantaire is a biker on the run from his demons, and Enjolras is a bartender and reluctant dancer who will do anything to get out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, defying3reason peripherally asked for some e/R, and the author was listening to rockabilly country, and...this happened.
> 
> Author disclaimer: The violence warning is a safety. I don't think that it's particularly graphic (someone gets punched, basically), but I definitely don't want to worry anyone.
> 
> Another author disclaimer: depending on how you read it, one of the main characters IS implied to die in this fic. However, there's a fix-it epilogue, so if you (like me) don't like angsty endings, you can read that.

_They used to call me lightnin’_  
 _I was always quick to strike_  
 _Had everything I owned_  
 _In the saddles on my bike_  
 _I had a reputation_  
 _for never stayin’ very long_  
 _Just a wild, restless drifter_  
 _Like a cowboy in a song_

Being a drifter, Grantaire decides, is overrated.

He shifts gears, savoring the thrum of the Harley underneath him. The leather jacket is hot against his shoulders in the desert sun, and he’s thankful that his helmet is strapped behind him rather than on his head—it’s no use there, of course, but the wind feels good in his hair, and the blue bandanna around his forehead is already soaked enough, thanks so much.

Therein lies his main issue with biking. There’s no place to do laundry. And, because he isn’t a fifty-year-old in a midlife crisis, his bike really isn’t large enough to carry more than one big knapsack on the back. That in itself is half taken up with his watercolors and sketchpad, but he’d rather not do laundry for a month than jettison those.

Art is what keeps him human, now. That, and the open road. It’s pretty easy to stay sober when you know your life and livelihood depend on a bike—with no walls of steel or air bags to protect you.

None of this distracts him from exactly how _awful_ he smells. He’s in the Southwest, somewhere—New Mexico? Texas? It doesn’t matter. The _point_ is that there’s nothing and no one for miles, just sand that drifts across the two-lane road that passes for a highway in these parts that occasionally slips under his bike treads. He savors that, savors the squeak and the lurch in his belly, the thrill of re-adjusting and the dig of warm metal into the thigh as he moves.

 _That_ is not something he should have. He’d bought it in Alabama, with its nonexistent gun laws and infinite gun stores, because any biker (that’s what he is, despite not being affiliated with a gang) who can’t openly protect himself is a fool. The scar over one eye, slicing neatly through one thick brow, can attest to that.

He’d never been helpless—he was an accomplished martial artist and kickboxer before his life went down the drain, and while saving up for his bike he’d picked it back up—but he’d learned, to his detriment, that bringing fists to a knife fight is just as likely to succeed as the usual metaphor.

So he has a switch that he’s gotten quite adept with in his jacket pocket, and a Smith & Wesson that he wears low on his thigh. Grantaire has learned that the best defense is a good offense, and a visible .44 stops fights before they start.

Because, if he’s being honest, all Grantaire wants is to be left alone. Around people, there’s buzz and pressure and expectation, and there’s failure and broken dreams. For a long time, the whiskey had helped with that, numbed him and helped him to stop caring, but had never softened the jagged edges for very long, and they always seemed to come back sharper, cutting a little deeper than before. He’d been bleeding out slowly for years before he’d become cognizant again. Forget blood and water; coming out of Grantaire’s side had been blood and whiskey.

On the road, the sand rounds out the sharp corners, better than alcohol ever could. His Harley asks no questions, just purrs between his thighs. His paints don’t glare disapprovingly, just glow gently at him as he shapes them into surreal landscapes that should be too beautiful to exist but are, instead, just true to life.

When the sunsets paints the mesas purple and red, like it’s doing now, Grantaire can almost believe in something bigger.

He screeches the bike to a halt, reveling in the cloud of dust it kicks up. The particles hang in the air, swirling and collecting in his hair, his clothes, his scruffy beard (that’s just another by-product of _not having a fucking place to shower),_ and he can see the eddies of the desert wind as he lowers himself to sit cross-legged on the ground.

It’s too windy to pull out watercolor now, so he extracts a soft-lead pencil from his bag instead and loses himself in the rise and fall of the horizon, the curve of the wind and the sharp angles of the rocks.

Yes, he thinks, this is better than any alcohol-soaked haze. The dust suits his art much better.

* * *

  _I met a dark-haired beauty_  
 _Where they lay the whiskey down_  
 _In southern Arizona_  
 _In a little border town_  
 _She had to dance for money_  
 _In that dusty old saloon_  
 _I put a dollar in the jukebox_  
 _Played that girl a tune, yeah_

 _  
_It’s been nearly two days without speaking to a living soul—sleeping under the stars, passing nary a car on the road—when he pulls into the diner. The Café MUSAIN, blares the cheap neon sign, except one of the letters is out so it looks like an advert for an Olympic sprinter. Despite the pretentious name (honestly, who names their truck stop something _French_ when they’re literally twenty miles from the Mexican border?) it looks even seedier than most such spots he’s found. It’s the middle of the day, the prime lunchtime rush, but the parking lot is empty. It’s attached to a little Laundromat, though, so he slings his backpack over one shoulder, whistling tunelessly as he pushes open the side door.

He emerges an hour later, if not cleaner at least in cleaner clothes. There’d been a bathroom in, too, so his hair is wet and dripping down onto a white T-shirt. His leather jacket, emblazoned with only a green R on the right bicep, hangs over one forearm; it’s too damned hot, without the fear of road rash, to wear it.

The parking lot is dead as it was an hour before, and the inside is, at a glance, no busier. But the sun glints off something inside, and Grantaire catches sight of a blond head of hair.

The door jangles as he steps in, and the hair jumps. It’s behind the counter that clearly doubles as a bar, and the inside of this place feels much darker than it had seemed in the Arizona sun. The hair seems to glow in the gloom, and he follows the strands with his eyes. It’s tied back with a red ribbon, like some saloon girl from a bad Western, but it covers instead a tight T-shirt over narrow shoulders and a trim waist, which disappear behind the bar.

The hair turns, and Grantaire is lost.

He’d assumed that the bartender was a woman. He was wrong.

The mistake was an easy one to make, though; while the bartender is unmistakably male, he has to be the prettiest man Grantaire has ever seen. Hair like something out of a commercial, tumbling coquettishly over one shoulder in a riot of perfect curls; slashes of dark-blond brows and a strong jaw adding character to otherwise too-pretty features; the most delicate nose, upturned at the end, set over a full, pink mouth. Dominating all of this is his eyes, huge and blue, with dark lashes that Grantaire wishes he could pick out individually. His thin T-shirt clings beautifully to lean but strong muscles—those of a runner or dancer.

Forget desert landscapes; _this_ is what his fingers have been itching for. Grantaire’s mouth fucking _waters_ at the prospect of tracing out each individual curl, shading those perfect irises, sketching in the shadows beneath that impossibly full mouth.

But that impossible mouth is _moving,_ now, and Grantaire barely suppresses a groan as it forms _words._

“Can I help you with somethin’?”

And Jesus _fuck,_ that is just _evil._ There’s just enough of a twang to turn every word into honey, and while his art may be visual, not aural, he _knows_ music when he hears it. And when this Greek god masquerading as a mortal speaks, it’s a fucking _sonata._

“Coffee.” It’s not Antony’s speech, fine, but he’s forming words that aren’t _how are you even real_ and that, in the presence of this statue, is an accomplishment. And…the statue is talking again, rudely interrupting Grantaire’s continued staring.

“Just coffee? Nothing…extra?”

 _Man,_ he’s new. Grantaire knows that dives like this train their waitresses (and, apparently, their pretty-as-fuck waiters) to push alcohol but this kid sounds more like he’s propositioning Grantaire then offering to sell him whiskey in his coffee. Not that Grantaire would mind being propositioned. It’s been a while.

“Nah.” His voice comes out raspier than he intends.

“All right.  I’ll start a fresh pot, this one’s from this morning.” It’s two in the afternoon, so Grantaire appreciates it, and he tells the beautiful man so.

He settles, not at the bar—too much temptation—but at one of the little tables by a raised section that looks like a stage. He can hear the bartender moving, but he determinedly ignores it in favor of pulling out his sketch pad.

It’s for the diner, he tells himself. The ambience, the broken sign, the old-fashioned if dusty bar…certainly not for the pretty bartender.

Whose proportions are as close to classical as is physically fucking possible and who looks like Antinous reborn…

Why would he want to draw that?

“Coffee?”

He drops the sketchbook in surprise, swivels, and proceeds to nearly drop the coffee as it’s headed to him.

Because, of course, Antinous would be wearing leather pants. Jesus H. Christ, this isn’t _fair._ It is too damn hot for leather; he should know, he’s been wearing it all day. And that hadn’t been leather pants, that gripped his thighs and molded to the bartender’s perfect ass and this is really, really just not fucking fair, and he tries to drag his eyes up to the man’s face.

(Which is descending towards him, past where they’d be on a level, as the bartender sinks to his knees).

The leather creaks, and Grantaire barely holds in a soft whine.

“Sorry about that.”

He continues, and it’s a good thing because Grantaire is trying to decide whether crossing his legs would make his problem more or less conspicuous as of now. Considering the position of the man’s head about four inches from his knees, he’s going to go with more.

“Is this yours? These are gorgeous.”

“Th-thanks.” He’s not self-conscious about his art; he sells it on street corners, leaves it on park benches, has allowed small children to follow his paintbrush with their eyes. Somehow, though, _this_ man paging through his work feels more intimate than anything ever has, so he takes it back quickly and shuts it with more emphasis than is perhaps necessary.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“No! Stay,” Grantaire begs, because there’s no denying that begging is exactly what he’s doing. “I haven’t talked to—well, anyone—in days.”

“That your bike outside?” Apollo asks, pulling out another chair without asking and sliding into it like he has no bones. His hair shifts, showing the white lettering across his red T-shirt.

_I don’t need sex; the government fucks me every day._

“Yeah. Bought her secondhand off a sketchy dealer, but she’s never died on me in three years,” Grantaire replies. “Nice shirt.”

“What? Oh,” and the man _giggles._ Well, _chuckles_ or _snickers,_ perhaps, but there’s such a lightness and musicality to it that neither of those words really work either. Goddammit, Jim, he’s an artist, not a wordsmith. “Thanks. My boss doesn’t like it, but he won’t be here till tonight, so…”

“So you get out your Déjacqueian tendencies on your own time?”

The bartender stares at him for nearly a full ten seconds, and he really just shouldn’t be that attractive with his mouth half-open.

“You’re…an anarcho-communist?”

“Cynic,” Grantaire corrects. “I just like to know what I’m rejecting. The capitalist regime’s a little mainstream.”

“Ah. So you don’t believe in anything.”

Grantaire raises his coffee mug with a cocked eyebrow, and takes a sip. It’s not fantastic, but it’s not caffeinated motor oil either, which renders it eminently drinkable in his eyes.

_No, Apollo, I don’t believe in anything. But I could believe in you, I think._

He really hopes he didn’t say any of that out loud.

“But you’ve read Déjacque? Not exactly light reading, or Kant,” says the bartender, raising one (perfect, beautiful) eyebrow.

“Pretty _and_ smart. I knew I came in here for a reason,” Grantaire laughs, and he actually has no idea where this suave stranger is coming from but he hopes to the God he doesn’t believe in that he’s here to stay. “Do you have a name to go with your face, or do I have to make one up, Apollo?”

“Enjolras. And you?”

Ah, the moment of truth. He hasn’t said his own name in nearly a year, since he’s started this trek across the country to escape his demons.

“Call me R.”

Now, apparently, is not the time to let it loose.

It doesn’t seem possible, but they talk for _hours,_ beginning with Déjacque and the libertarian movement, moving into the revolutions of 1848, to Edward Snowden and freedom of information. Liberally interspersed is Apollo (Enjolras) tucking a wayward strand of hair behind one ear, or getting up and bringing them both back coffee. The diner remains empty until five in the evening, as the shadows are getting long and Enjolras’s hair starts emitting—no joke—a halo in the golden desert light.

“Oh, shoot,” the god murmurs, glancing at the clock behind the bar. “I…it’s almost time for my second job to start.” He stands. “I’d better line up the jukebox.”

“What sort of second job?” Grantaire rises when Enjolras does, pulling the ribbon out of his hair in what looks like a nervous habit. It doesn’t help Grantaire’s concentration; that hair, loosed, is a glory, something he could literally work over for months without being satisfied with and yet never stop trying to emulate, in perfect, meticulous detail.

“I’m a dancer.” Enjolras sends him a _look,_ proud and defensive and absolutely _unapologetic,_ from under a stray curl. “Got a problem with that?”

Grantaire is pretty sure that his brain just broke. 

Behind his eyes is a haze, full of images of Enjolras contorting that lithe body into fantastic positions, letting that hair hang loose and biting that lower lip until it’s red from worrying.

“So…that’s what the leather pants are for.”

Enjolras wrinkles his nose. “Not my choice.”

“Not complaining,” Grantaire murmurs. He’d thought he was too soft to hear, but apparently not, because out of the corner, Enjolras scoffs.

“Be serious.”

“I am wild,” Grantaire shoots back, because Enjolras’s best expressions, he’s found, come when Grantaire’s just shooting his mouth off. Enjolras has a gorgeously expressive face, capable of emotion that transcends the sublime as well as just fantastically funny faces when he’s annoyed. He’s making an annoyed face, now, so Grantaire continues: “As a heart attack, though.”

Enjolras _blushes,_ and Grantaire is really just not prepared for that.

“Then it was worth it,” the blond man says softly, hoarsely, and with that the hard-on that Grantaire’s been fighting down manfully for _three straight hours_ is back in full force.

The music starts as Enjolras presses a button, and the tiny diner fills with a drumbeat that Grantaire can feel in his veins. He turns, looking for the speakers that must be surrounding him—but it’s a bad idea, because he feels a hot presence behind him. It’s Enjolras, and as the man’s long arms wrap around his waist, he really just can’t keep down a groan.

He turns in Enjolras’s arms, snaking his hands around the smaller man’s waist as Apollo’s relocate to around his neck, and Enjolras’s head falls forward against his shoulder and there _is absolutely no way that Enjolras doesn’t know what he’s doing._ Grantaire groans again, louder, and he feels a chuckle reverberate from Enjolras.

“Apollo,” he mutters, “What you’re doing isn’t really appropriate for the public.”

“I don’t see another living soul,” laughs the _evil_ sybarite below him, and Grantaire supposes he’s right so he dives down and claims Enjolras’s mouth with a bruising, burning kiss.

There’s fire, tracing from everywhere they’re touching through his veins and back, pouring back into each other like a self-fulfilling prophecy. Enjolras is fucking _panting_ against his mouth, making little huffy sounds that go straight south, and Grantaire has never been this turned on in his life.

He pulls away with a strangled noise, looking for an appropriate flat surface (the closest appears to be the stage), and he’s pulling Enjolras backwards, and Enjolras is in his _lap_ and their tongues are down each other’s throats, and that long blond hair is wrapped around his palm to match how tightly Enjolras’s fists are nested in his curls. Enjolras’s knees are on either side of his hips, and Grantaire’s free hand is cupping one leather-clad cheek in his hand when the door slams open.

“What the _fuck?”_

_Never see it comin’_  
 _It just takes you by surprise_  
 _Hits that cold place in your soul_  
 _With that fire in her eyes_  
 _It makes you come together_  
 _Like wild horses when they run_  
 _Now the cards are on the table, man,_  
 _Bullet’s in the gun_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire makes his decision.

_She was sittin’ on my lap_   
_We still had shots to kill_   
_When a man pulled up_   
_Who owned the bar_   
_In a Cadillac Deville_   
_He grabbed her by her raven hair_   
_And threw her on the floor_   
_And said: “No free rides for the cowboys,_   
_That ain’t what I pay you for, no”_

Enjolras starts, mouth stilling from where it’s been working busily on Grantaire’s lower lip. It probably takes a full three seconds for the shout to penetrate Grantaire’s haze of arousal—an impressively slow response time, given that he’s stone cold sober—and finally focus  on the red-faced man standing in the doorway.

He’s a linebacker gone to seed, with cracked veins in his face that point to a lifetime of indulgence. He’s in a seedy suit, buttons straining over a paunch, but frightening by virtue of the fact that he probably tops Grantaire by three or four inches and still has slabs of muscle under the top layer of fat.

None of this means a damn thing next to the fact that Enjolras, clearly despite himself, has shrunk into Grantaire’s chest, and Grantaire can feel an aborted tremble in the curve of the other man’s hand, where it brushes the back of his neck.

Grantaire sees red.

Enjolras is off his lap, now, talking low and fast, hands open in a placating stance that’s belied by the proud jut of his shoulders. He’s moved in front of Grantaire, but Grantaire can’t appreciate the protective move—or admire the bravery it takes—when the artist in him has clocked the brittle tension that racks Enjolras’s body.

The man is shouting over Enjolras, now, and Grantaire rises to stand at Enjolras’s right shoulder. Catching sight of him, the proprietor turns an unattractive shade of purple.

“Fuckin’ _twink,_ screwin’ around when you should be workin’! That ain’t what I pay you for. You’re reserved for _payin’_ customers, you little _slut!”_

Grantaire sees it coming, but he’s caught behind Enjolras and isn’t quick enough to stop it. The hamlike fist makes a meaty sound as it connects with Apollo’s cheekbone, and Enjolras goes flying. His slight dancer’s body, despite the strength there, is no match for the sheer tank that has delivered the blow. He slides across the floor, into three chairs, and curls into himself with a choked-off cry of pain.

Grantaire’s blade is in his hand without him having the memory of pulling it out, and the heavy steel feels good in his hand.

“Listen, you son of a bitch—“ He’s scaring himself with the coldness of his voice, but his vision has narrowed to the sack of flesh in front of him, this waste of space that’s dared to lay a hand on his Apollo, who’s dared to leave a mark on that beautiful face or—ten times worse—has dared to instill fear into that indomitable soul.

He never gets to finish his vengeful speech. Probably a good thing, since he’d had little idea of what to say past an always-good opening, but a pity all the same. Grantaire hasn’t gotten to play the hero in a long time; until a year and a half ago, he’d been too drunk to, and before that he’d been too young and too bitter.

It doesn’t end up mattering, though, because in the impossibly long moment between Enjolras hitting the floor and Grantaire flipping open his blade, he’s become cognizant of a lack of weight along his right thigh.

_She jumped up and grabbed my pistol_   
_Stuck it in the fat man's back_   
_Said, "Open up the safe_   
_And put your money in the sack"_   
_Then tied his hands behind him_   
_And put a blindfold on his eyes_   
_Said, "If you're dumb enough to chase us, man,_   
_You're dumb enough to die"_

Grantaire has rarely drawn his gun, and never on another person. He’ll take potshots at cans and tumbleweeds _very_ occasionally, but it says something that the bullets currently in his cartridge are ones that he’d originally bought in Alabama.

Nevertheless, the hunk of metal never strays far from him, even in a deceptively passive capacity; so much so that the missing heft of it against his leg makes him feel off-balance. The revolver may be decoration, but it’s a part of him, too, and he’s certain it’s saved his ass indirectly more than once.

What’s stranger than not having his .44, however, is seeing his .44 in Enjolras’s slim hands.

They’re dwarfed by the gun, and his knuckles are white against the grip, but his stance is solid and his arms—so recently wrapped around Grantaire’s neck—are rock-steady.

“Don’t move.” His voice is like Grantaire’s never heard it, a terrifying combination of freezing rage and fiery eyes, and there’s a set to his mouth that makes the proprietor go still. Grantaire takes a step back, well out of the line of fire. So far today, he’s admired, lusted after, and been inspired by Enjolras. He hadn’t guessed he’d be afraid of him, too.

“R, there’s a rope under the bar. Go get it.”

Grantaire does, because Enjolras has a gun in his hand and what _else_ is he supposed to do? He’s an accomplice, now; it’s his gun that Enjolras is using, and the police will take one look at his records and come to an inaccurate conclusion.

And if he gets a sort of vicious pleasure in watching the fat man sweat, well, that’s his business.

“ _You,”_ Enjolras’s voice cracks across the café, “Open the safe. Grantaire, keep watch out the window.”

Oh, right. This place actually gets customers at night; customers Enjolras is, apparently, _reserved_ for. Grantaire feels a strange mixture of revulsion and possessiveness rise in him, but obeys, moving to brace one forearm against the door, other hand still wrapped around the comforting weight of the switchblade.

He carefully doesn’t look at Enjolras as he hears orders to open the safe, the creak of badly oiled hinges, and the wispy _thump_ of cash into a backpack.

Enjolras has planned this, Grantaire realizes. Maybe not this exact scenario, but the rope, the backpack…this isn’t a spur-of-the-moment response. Grantaire is another piece in the puzzle, and he’s not sure if he’s a catalyst or merely collateral damage.

It hurts him more than it should; he’s known this man for four hours total, and Enjolras literally owes him _nothing._ He will allow that kissing him before using him as an accomplice was a bit much, though. He didn’t need his ego stroked _that_ badly; Enjolras is a very good actor. Grantaire bites his lip and refocuses on the empty landscape, highway stretching out flat and blank in either direction.

“Tie him up.”

It’s a shoddy job, because Grantaire was never a Boy Scout, and he snarks about handcuffs. In response, Enjolras presses himself up against his back and breathes, “It seemed…appropriate.”

Grantaire does _not_ want to read anything into that, so he settles for stiffening as Enjolras touches him. He may have fallen for Enjolras the first time, but he’s not letting him get the drop again. The proprietor is sweating and silent, at this point—surprisingly so, for all the opinions he’d had earlier, and Grantaire says something to that effect. If possible, the man sweats harder, and Grantaire moves away in case he has a seizure.

“Alright, let’s blow this Popsicle stand.” The metaphor sounds wrong coming off Apollo’s tongue, like he’s trying to put Grantaire at ease rather than speaking for its own sake. Grantaire appreciates the effort, really, but considering that Enjolras has _just used his gun to hijack what appears to be a pimp_ he doesn’t know how much good it’s done.

 Enjolras—finally—lets the gun fall to his side, tucking it into his waistband. Grantaire has a sudden and strong urge to yell _people have lost buttocks that way, boy!_

Instead, he ventures, “I’ve got the holster.”

Enjolras laughs, and it’s only then that Grantaire sees the stress come back to his shoulders. His heart breaks; despite what’s happened in the last fifteen minutes, with Enjolras seemingly shifting from horny dancer to kleptomaniacal sociopath, the persona that feels most real is this one—a man who’s tired of being afraid, who knows that he deserves better and has decided that nothing is worth staying for.

Grantaire can understand that.

Enjolras moves towards him, and Grantaire feels metal, warm now from Enjolras’s hands, press into his stomach. Enjolras rests his head against Grantaire’s chest for a moment before he murmurs, “Sorry about that.”

It’s such an odd thing to say that Grantaire wants to laugh.

Instead, he wraps his fingers over the barrel and croaks, “Anytime.”

It’s terrifying, but it’s true. Grantaire knows, without a doubt, that he’d follow this Greek god to the ends of the earth. Just to be in his presence, Grantaire would crawl over broken glass, hold up a saloon, drive across the desert.

Enjolras pulls away, and every fiber of Grantaire cries out in protest. With a quiet grin, almost bordering on shy,--another Enjolras peeking out, robbing each previous persona of validity—he sweeps past him, backpack full of money over one shoulder, leather pants creaking softly. His hair, never confined again after he’d pulled it loose, spills down thick and glorious over shoulders that have—finally—lost some of the brittle tension that had kept them stiff. Before, Enjolras had appeared an avenging angel, beautiful and terrible; now he looks like a desert spirit, free and wild as it swoops across the dunes. It’s a good look on him, Grantaire decides; no matter how good a wanton minx or fiery warrior Enjolras makes, him _happy,_ Grantaire has decided, is the only look that makes the world an infinitely more gorgeous place.

The door jangles shut on Enjolras’s retreating back; Grantaire moves to follow, then thinks better of it. He turns back around, fixing the proprietor with a cold stare. The man’s too proud to whimper, he’s merely white as stone, cracked veins—alcoholic’s veins—standing out against the stark paleness. It’s not enough; he doesn’t look nearly as scared as he deserves after what he’s done to Enjolras, and not just because Grantaire’s in love with him (because he is, cynicism be damned; he knows that he’d be happy to worship Enjolras for eternity) but because Grantaire has no patience for men who hit those smaller than they.

The gun is back in its holster, but he flicks the switchblade back open instead.

“If you come after us, Enjolras’ll shoot you.” It comes out as a croon, something Grantaire’s never produced before, but it’s pants-shittingly scary if the way even the permanently flushed veins in the man’s face go white are any indication. “I think you know that. But what you _don’t_ know is that he’ll only shoot you in the leg—I’ll make sure of that, so you can’t run away. Then I’ll draw a picture on your fat face, carve my name into your forehead—“ he steps closer, runs the handle of the blade across a slablike cheek, enjoys the way the bloodshot eyes nearly roll backwards trying to follow the R he phantom-traces on the pitiful canvas—“and make sure everyone knows exactly what you are. And then—“ He bares his teeth in something that in no way resembles a smile—“ _Then_ I’ll let Enjolras shoot you.”

It’s a good speech, and it’s punctuated by— _finally—_ a trembling of the man’s lower lip as he lets out a low, soft whine.

Grantaire’s insides clench with a harsh glee, and he pulls away, leaving the man in front of him broken and terrified. He’s not in the least bit sorry.

With a final dismissive look, he gathers his knapsack and joins Enjolras outside.

* * *

 

The golden god is leaning back against his bike, red T-shirt and black pants stretching obscenely over his perfect body and still-loose hair a flaming corona in the setting sun.

“Have fun?” Flirty-Enjolras is back, letting out a smirking half-smile that calls attention to how full and red his lips are, and shaking his hair back over his shoulders.

“What the _fuck_ is your problem?” Asks Grantaire, in lieu of answer. He’s caught between vicious pleasure and a sense of bereavement as the smile drops.

“You fucking _proposition_ me, _steal my gun and make me help you tie up your boss,_ implicate me in a fucking _felony,_ less than two hours after you’ve _met_ me. What’s to stop me from calling the police, right now?” Not that he would, or even could; less than twenty miles out of NYC, he’d chucked his cell into oncoming traffic. He’s never regretted it.

“No cell reception,” Enjolras replies promptly (at least he’s honest).

“Tell me one thing, Enjolras,” and yes he _knows_ it’s melodramatic but he needs to know anyway. “Was I just a means to an end? You saw my gun, and figured the best way to get close was to fuckin’ _make out with me?”_

Enjolras doesn’t respond for a long minute, but Grantaire isn’t sure what else to say. So they simply stare at each other, Grantaire panting from adrenaline and vitriol, Enjolras as still as a statue.

“You were, to start,” Enjolras says, breaking the silence. “I saw your gun, everything was quiet, I had everything ready. But then…”

“Then w _hat?”_

“You mentioned _Déjacque!”_ Sky blue eyes transfix Grantaire’s, lit from within by a fire that steals Grantaire’s breath. “You knew about anarcho-communism, you weren’t some dumb biker that I could take, you were _smart_ and you wanted to _talk_ to me and didn’t just stare at my face or my ass, and when I bent over getting coffee you tried not to stare. But…” Enjolras bites his lip. “When you said you liked that I was a dancer, I…I wanted to dance, for the first time, for you. I wanted to kiss you, I _wanted_ things I’d never wanted before. This has _never_ been anything except a job, until you walked through that door.” His voice is getting louder, and there’s a gorgeous blush creeping up his neck that’s only half-visible in the quickly dimming light. “I’ve never felt like this before, and I knew I couldn’t just tie you up and leave like I’d planned. I c _ouldn’t.”_

Grantaire just stares at him. Enjolras stares back, not flirty or manic or afraid but instead defiant, proud, but with a hint of the shyness he’d gotten before. This is a man who aspires to greater things, and it’s the only look that sits naturally on Enjolras.

“Let’s go.”

Enjolras pushes off the bike, a look of confusion crossing his face. “What?”

“I said, let’s go.” Grantaire moves past him, unbuckles the black-and-green helmet from the back, and tosses it towards Enjolras. “Put that on, don’t want that pretty head getting messed up.”

Enjolras doesn’t move, his expression indicating an odd combination of shell-shock and hope.

“Well, come _on,_ then.” Grantaire replaces the helmet with his backpack—it can’t go on his back like it had, because Enjolras will need something to hold on to. He prays to whoever’s listening that Enjolras pressed against him that closely won’t end up in him crashing the bike. “Put this on, too.” The leather jacket hits Enjolras in the chest, and with an incredulous look he sets down the helmet to shrug into the jacket. They’re of a height, but Grantaire is considerably broader across the shoulders, so the sleeves flop over Enjolras’s hands and for a moment he looks like a little kid playing dress-up, and Grantaire has to bite back a laugh.

Then Enjolras zips it up, and the laugh vanishes as if it’d never been there. Because with loose hair, in Grantaire’s jacket and leather pants, Enjolras looks _edible._

Grantaire bends to pick up the helmet, and steps closer. They’re nearly chest-to-chest, blue eyes on darker blue, and Enjolras’s mouth is slightly open and his lips are red and wet. Grantaire’s mouth waters.

But there’s a tied-up proprietor in the café, a shit-ton of stolen money in a JanSport, and the Mexican border twenty miles south, so he drops the helmet onto Enjolras’s head with gentle but unyielding hands. “Let’s get out of here.”

He swings a leg over the bike, and starts it while helping Enjolras mount behind him. Without being told, slim arms twine around his waist, and lean, leather-clad thighs clench around him. Grantaire barely holds back a groan, and peels out of the parking lot.

They ride down the road alone, and the dust swirls around them as the land is stained purple and yellow by the sun. Grantaire remembers this feeling, remembers riding out of the city for the first time. He’d thought he’d become inured to the feeling of freedom, of adventure.

But he has a golden god behind him, a bag of stolen money, and he’s striking out for the Mexican border. It’s like something out of a Western.

So he raises his head, savors the sandy wind through his hair, and lets out a long whoop.

Enjolras’s laughter and the wind chase him south. 

_Never see it comin’_   
_It just takes you by surprise_   
_Hits that cold place in your soul_   
_With that fire in her eyes_   
_It makes you come together_   
_Like wild horses when they run_   
_Now the cards are on the table, man,_   
_Bullet’s in the gun_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Sorry for the wait. Still Toby Keith's "Bullet's In the Gun" as inspiration, and still the absolutely lovely MeMeMe as beta. Seriously. Go read her stuff. Now. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think!
> 
> -star


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is an understanding to be had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. Okay. Ahem. This is...plotty porn, to be honest; it's also the first foray I've EVER had into this type of writing. As such, feedback is encouraged and truly begged for.

_We rode across the border_  
 _Down into Mexico_  
 _When you're runnin' from the law_  
 _Ain't that where everybody goes_  
 _We came upon a town_  
 _With a name I couldn't spell_  
 _She gave me what I came for_  
 _In that Mexican motel_

Despite what seems to be Enjolras’s best efforts to drive him mad, Grantaire does _not_ crash his bike. It’s a close thing, though. Enjolras has never been on a bike before, or so he claims, and has wrapped his arms so tightly around Grantaire’s waist that his nose is buried in Grantaire’s hair and the chin protector of his mask is resting just above Grantaire’s shoulder blades. His breath is hot against the nape of Grantaire’s neck—too hot to be comfortable, and yet sending goosebumps down Grantaire’s spine and making his hands tighten reflexively on the handlebars. He’s hit the gas accidentally that way several times, and the combination of the Harley revving and Enjolras’s surprised laughter and reflexive tightening of legs and arms around Grantaire should be fucking _illegal._

_Oh, wait._

They pull off the highway about a mile from the border, and race through the flatlands towards the old railroad junction. The fence is laughable, rusty and broken, with a rusted padlock that Grantaire pries open with only a few moments of concentrated effort. (He doesn’t miss the appreciative look Enjolras sends his straining biceps, however). He pulls hands away stained brown with rust and slightly scratched, and Enjolras pulls one to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the largest cut in the middle of his palm. He holds Grantaire’s eyes as he does, and there’s an emotion there that he can’t quite name. His eyes say _I am here for you. I am grateful for you._

Grantaire, not unkindly, retrieves his hand, and slings one leg back over the bike, reaching out to help Enjolras mount behind him.

* * *

 

They pull into a tiny parking lot about three miles inside the border. The clerk accepts their cash with an askance eye, but Enjolras shoves enough at her that she says nothing, only handing them a key. They reach the red door and push it open, and Grantaire stops short.

The walls are red, the sheets black, and there are enough pillows for an army. All of that could be explained away, though, if it weren’t for the painting on the opposite wall.

Not a painting, Grantaire corrects himself. A print. Picasso’s _La Doleur,_ to be exact. The lines are blurred and the style abstract, but that doesn’t keep the subject from being obvious, and he can tell by Enjolras’s face that the depiction is apparent even to a non-artist.  

This is a “notel”, Grantaire realizes. Not a motel like would be assumed in the U.S. This is where prostitutes take their clients and married men go to have their affairs; perhaps the clerk’s odd look hadn’t been about the money, after all. Given Enjolras’s clothing and distinctly delicate appearance (he’d say feminine, but there’s no way anyone with eyes could mistake Enjolras for a girl), she’d probably assumed the former.

His train of thought is quickly derailed, though, by Enjolras’s blush. He focuses on a rather more salient point of the room: It’s tiny. And there’s only one bed, positioned underneath the offending painting.

Enjolras nudges past him to drop the backpack next to the bed, then turns to him with an odd smile on his face. Grantaire recognizes it; it’s the same one Enjolras had been wearing the first time they’d kissed, in the diner, a few hours, a robbery, and forever ago.

But Grantaire doesn’t want to assume _anything,_ because even after everything that’s happened today and how enthusiastically Enjolras seems to respond to him Enjolras got _punched_ today. His cheekbone is black and blue (probably another reason for the clerk’s worry) but somehow doesn’t detract from his impossible beauty. He’d gotten punched by his boss, who’d made him dance for money (for men? For women? It doesn’t matter). Enjolras knows that his body is a weapon in more ways than one, and Grantaire’s not interested in anything from him that’s payment.

So, despite the arousal that’s been churning hot and thick through his veins since they’d climbed on the bike, he croaks out, “We don’t have to—“

“I know,” Enjolras whispers. “I want to.”

Enjolras’s eyes are lit from within by _something—_ Grantaire wouldn’t dare to believe it’s arousal—and his hair is mussed from the helmet that he’s tossed to the ground, and it all combines with Grantaire’s jacket and those damned _pants_ into a single jolt of heat that goes straight to Grantaire’s groin.

He’s pressed himself against the door, he realizes, fists clenched so he can’t push off it and ravage Enjolras’s mouth like he wants to.

“Enjolras—“

“You’re gorgeous, you know that?” (He’s not; he doesn’t know what Enjolras is talking about but the golden god is still talking and therefore can do nothing _except_ listen) “So broad, so strong. Your hands, the way they can create…I want to see you draw someday.” Grantaire bites back a groan, because this shouldn’t be as hot as it is; but then, he’s pretty sure that listening to Enjolras read the phone book would be hot, so perhaps it isn’t surprising after all. “But first, I want them on me.”

 _“Jesus,_ you’ve never done this before, have you?” Grantaire’s grateful for the distraction, though; it gives him something to focus on that _isn’t_ his raging erection.

Enjolras frowns, and Grantaire hastily continues. “I mean—“

“I have.” Comes the short reply. “Once.”

“—Enjolras, I can’t—you don’t—“

“You think I’m not experienced?” The eyes flare again, with something other than what _couldn’t_ have been arousal.

“I—“ _What?_

“I’m not. You’re right. I—I don’t know how to make this good for you. But I know, R, I know one thing if I know anything and that’s— _Jesus—_ that I want you, and I don’t know what you’ve done to me but—“

Enjolras has taken a step forward as if to close the distance between them, but stops. “What _have_  you done to me?” And the sharp light is gone, replaced by the earlier cloudy one that, despite all odds, _is_ arousal. Enjolras is aroused. By Grantaire. _Enjolras wants him._

Grantaire can’t fucking _help_ but groan.

“ _Fuck_ , R,” Enjolras says fiercely, and Grantaire nearly comes in his pants right there. “ _What have you done to me?”_ He steps forward again, closing the gap between them achingly slowly.

Grantaire forces a laugh, because he needs _something_ to take his mind off the friction of his jeans and the absolute _obscenity_ that is Enjolras’s mouth wrapping around the curse.

“What have _I_ done? Enjolras, I could ask the same of you. All I wanted was a goddamn _coffee,”_ he laughs, and some of the tension between them breaks. “Instead, I got you—an anarcho-communist Apollo who stole my gun and turned me into an outlaw. What did _I_ do to deserve this, a god before me, asking me to defile him?”

“I’m not a god!” Another step. “Just a man. A man that wants you more than anything else in his entire life.” Another step—the last—and suddenly Enjolras’s lips are on his.

It’s a thousand times better than the bar, with its sense of farce and the urgency of getting caught. This kiss is painfully, beautifully real, sending fire from Grantaire’s lips to every corner and crevice of his body.

This isn’t a defilement, Grantaire realizes. It’s a purification.

But he can’t focus on the philosophy of the moment when Enjolras’s lips are veritably attacking his, dragging his teeth along Grantaire’s lower lip, his slender fingers wrapped in the short hairs at the nape of Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire grabs for his the waistband of the leather pants, silently cursing the lack of belt loops, and grinds their hips together. The added friction along his erection makes his eyes roll back in his head.

He can feel every nerve ending in his body, from his hands at Enjolras’s waist to where his weeks’ stubble rubs against Enjolras’s soft skin, to where Enjolras’s tongue slides along his and at his neck where Enjolras’s fingernails are scratching lightly.

His heart is beating erratically and pounding against his ribcage, but it’s answered by the fluttering of Enjolras’s pulse where the smaller man’s wrist rests against his shoulder.

“I want you,” he whispers raggedly into the sinful angel’s mouth that’s against his.

“Then take me.” There’s a bubble of laughter in Enjolras’s hoarse voice. “God, R…” He’s begging now, as he moves from Grantaire’s lips to the curve of his jaw and down his neck. Grantaire’s hands have a mind of their own as they shove his jacket off Enjolras’s shoulders and tug at the red shirt that had started this whole thing.

With a wanton moan, Enjolras peels his lips from Grantaire’s neck in order to get the red shirt over his head, then makes up for lost time by sucking a blood bruise into it, punctuating the action with a nip and soothing the reddened skin with his tongue. Grantaire can feel his long fingers stroke down to the hem of his own shirt, and Enjolras disengages again, shooting a Look out from underneath his eyelashes as he moves back towards the bed.

Grantaire’s worn T-shirt rips as it come over his head. He couldn’t care less.

He _can’t_ care, not when Enjolras has scooted back against the headboard, and everything that had been hinted at by the snugness of his shit has now been revealed. The familiar itch in his fingers for pad and pen—temporarily quashed by Enjolras’s mouth on his—returns with a vengeance. He wants to capture Enjolras like this, shirtless and flushed; hair a disheveled halo; he wants him in watercolors against the desert sky, a free and wild spirit; he wants him in charcoals, stern and forbidding yet wild-eyed, hands sketched around a recognizable gun. He wants to shade Enjolras naked and spent, hair spread across pillows and lean chest dotted with the marks of Grantaire’s teeth.

Before he wants any of that, though, Grantaire wants to _get_ him that way.

He joins Enjolras on the bed, movements slow like he’s moving through syrup. Enjolras’s legs spread to accommodate him, and their mouths slot together as if they’ve practiced for years. Grantaire can feel patterns being traced into his chest, trails of fire left by Apollo’s fingertips as the kiss deepens again, an edge of hunger left over from their frantic kissing against the door intruding on the leisurely nature of this one. The kisses grow needier, sloppier, as Enjolras trails one hand down to the button of Grantaire’s jeans.

“ _Fuck,”_ Grantaire groans, and he buries one hand in the smaller man’s hair as the zipper slides down. _“Enjolras.”_

“Want you,” Enjolras smiles.

“No lube, no—I haven’t—“ _I haven’t had sex in a year,_ he wants to say, _I won’t hurt you—_

“We’ll have to try something else, then.”

Suddenly Grantaire is on his back, and Enjolras is licking down his stomach, hands pushing down jeans and boxers until he comes face-to-face with Grantaire’s erection.

His expression becomes one of concentration, and it’s goddamn adorable and so at odds with his sex-mussed hair that Grantaire would laugh if he _weren’t so goddamn hard._

Almost delicately, Enjolras licks a long stripe from base to tip, and Grantaire lets out a strangled noise. It’s immediately followed by a—louder—groan as Enjolras takes the tip in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as he slides down as far as he can go.

“J-j- _Jesus,”_ pants Grantaire, “You’ve only done this once?”

Enjolras lets out a laugh in response, and it sends vibrations through his mouth and Grantaire’s fisting the sheets to keep from coming. “Enj—Enjolras, I’m—“

Enjolras slides off with a wet _pop,_ and his mouth is still half-open, lips red, and Grantaire somehow still finds the strength to gasp out a warning before he comes as Enjolras lowers his mouth to Grantaire’s cock once more.

Enjolras looks _far_ too pleased with himself as he runs his tongue along his lower lip, gathering the white that’s perched there. There’s come on his cheekbone, too, and Grantaire runs a thumb along it to wipe it off before he seizes the back of Enjolras’s neck and pulls him into a devouring kiss, rolling them over until Enjolras’s slight body is underneath his. He can taste himself in Enjolras’s mouth, and it combines with the smell of sand and leather and _Enjolras_ until Grantaire could happily stay here forever, kissing Enjolras until the end of time.

Enjolras’s erection is still digging into his hip, though, so he runs a hand down to find the opening. (He’s pretty sure he breaks the land-speed record for getting someone out of leather pants).

It’s not the best hand job he’s ever given, but it’s a pretty damn good one, alternately stroking and squeezing to find out which way Enjolras likes best, until Enjolras is keening underneath him, eyes tight shut, mouth open, and body trembling as he comes with a breathless “ _R!”_

For a long moment, there’s no sound in the room except their breathing.

* * *

 

Enjolras’s fingers trace patterns on Grantaire’s chest as he curls into his side, and Grantaire twirls a long curl through his fingers.

“Thank you.” Enjolras’s voice is quiet, almost shy. “That was…that was perfect.”

Grantaire flushes. “Enjolras—“

“Shhh.” The noise comes out like from a small child, and Grantaire holds back a laugh. “It _was,_ I don’t care what you say.” Enjolras’s nose buries into Grantaire’s side, and his fingers still for a moment before resuming their patterns.

“You’re right. It was perfect,” murmurs Grantaire. Because it was; he’s had a lot of sex, but this hurried job in a sketchy Mexican motel had blown anything else out of the water.

He _does_ laugh at that unintended, horrible pun, and earns himself another poke for good measure. It’s soothed by Enjolras’s lips, though, so he’ll take it and then some.

He turns his head, looking down at Enjolras’s face, sleepy and content and yet concentrated on his stroking fingers.

“Hold still.” He stands, and Enjolras grumbles at losing his pillow and canvas initially but then sits up, leaning back on his elbows.

“R?”

“Just…stay like that.” He scrabbles for pencil, nearly rips the cover off his sketchpad in his haste, but seats himself on the loveseat by the door as Enjolras pushes himself farther up, onto his hands. The blond man takes a look at Grantaire by the door and lets out a sleepy smile, steals all the pillows, and props himself up before shutting his eyes, lips still drawn back in a blissful grin.

They sit like that in companionable silence, broken only by the scratch of pencil on paper, until Enjolras lets out a soft snore.

At that, Grantaire sets aside the pad. He’s got the outline done; he can finish the rest later, because he couldn’t forget this scene if he wanted to. Every detail is etched into his brain, as if by a brand, or the imprints the Sun leaves behind eyelids if they look too close.

He crawls into the bed with Enjolras, pulling out the blankets and tucking them over them both. Enjolras murmurs sleepily, curling into his chest, and Grantaire buries his hand in the thick blond locks that cascade to cover them both.

He sleeps better than he has in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to the lovely MeMeMe, who edits on top of her own busy schedule and gives me appropriate whacks upside/pats on the head as needed.
> 
> On a more serious note: The decisions made in this chapter re: sex, the having of it, and the safety thereof, do not reflect my opinions on what is safe or should be expected when making these decisions. If you feel I need to tag anything I have not, please let me know. 
> 
> Come find me on tumblr! http://www.goldfishtobleroneandamitie.tumblr.com.
> 
> I love each and every one of you for helping me through this!
> 
> -star


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A perfect morning, ruined by Mexican Federal Police.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been brought to my attention that the end of this chapter is rather ambiguous, so please, allow me to make one thing very clear. 
> 
> The end of this chapter is not a suicide. I couldn't write R suicide if I tried, and I never want to try. There -is- a gun fired, and I intentionally left it so Grantaire could be considered dead if you so choose (why you would choose that, I don't know, but I don't understand angst readers despite loving them a lot). 
> 
> That said, I've never written anything like this before so I'm very, very sorry if I made anyone upset before the posting of this note. As is, please tell me if there's some way you'd prefer I tag this; I was leery of "Major Character Death", but I will if that's how it needs to be done. Please, allow me to apologize again.
> 
> -gfaa

_I woke up to sirens_  
And the sound of running feet  
Nearly fifty federales  
 _locked and loaded in the street_  
 _She grabbed my .44_  
 _I grabbed the money in the sack_  
 _I kissed her for the last time_  
 _And we headed out the back_

Sunlight lances the inside of Grantaire’s eyelids, turning them a bloody red. Opening his eyes, the first thing he notices is that he’s bare-ass naked.

The second thing he’s aware of is the strands of golden hair obscuring his vision and draping across his mouth and nose.

The third sensation is a warm, lean body against his side and long arms curled around his waist.

“Enjolras?”

He’s answered with a sleepy murmur and the dig of a nose into his ribs as Enjolras nestles tighter against him.

Shifting carefully so as not to disturb his bedmate still further, Grantaire leverages himself onto one elbow, brushing golden strands away from his face, and studies the determinedly sleeping god beside him.

He looks young, Grantaire thinks. He always has, but awake, Enjolras’s countenance has a steel to it not present in sleep—a steel that makes him appear much older. Now, Enjolras could pass for sixteen or seventeen.

He supposes that he should be more worried about not knowing Enjolras’s exact age. But then, given the events of the last two days, he’s pretty sure that having sex with a possible minor is the least of his worries.

More than young, Enjolras looks innocent in sleep—mouth half open, dusky purple lids shut and long lashes falling against his cheek. His hair is a mess, sticking to his shoulders and half-obscuring his face, and Grantaire feels yet another itch to capture this moment with his pencils.

But his sketchbook’s on the chair where he left it, and Enjolras is clinging to him like a sleepy koala, so he’s content to simply etch the image behind his eyes, so he can reproduce it later from memory.

“Stop thinkin’ so loud,” comes a grumpy murmur from below him, and chills race down Grantaire’s spine at the brush of Enjolras’s lips against his skin. “Or at least share with the class.” A smile curves, and Enjolras turns his head enough to meet Grantaire’s eyes.

“How old are you?”

The sleepy humor fades, to be replaced with sleepy confusion. Enjolras’s brows draw together in an admirable impression of a quizzical first grader. “Nineteen. Why?”

Well, that’s one thing Grantaire won’t be arrested for. Things are looking up.

“Just counting how many illegal things I did yesterday.”

Understanding dawns, and Enjolras shifts to lean on one elbow, resting his chin on his hand. “I think grand larceny was the main thing. Also, the other thing was in Mexico.”

“True.” Grantaire lets out a soft breath through his nose, and even Enjolras lets out a giggle—well, the same odd-but-hot giggle-chuckle hybrid of a day (a lifetime) ago—at the absurdity of it all.

“You’re a felon, but not _that_ kind of felon,” Enjolras reassure him.

They both think it’s funnier than it is, dissolving into hysterical giggles as Enjolras buries his face in Grantaire’s chest and Grantaire rests his chin atop Enjolras’s head. Their legs tangle together, making Grantaire painfully aware of the fact that…well…it’s morning.

Impossibly, though, that urge is quieted by the noise he hears suddenly come from his stomach. Enjolras jumps as a rumble of his own answers it.

He looks at Grantaire fondly, a look that bespeaks _comfort_ and _familiarity_ and one that Grantaire wants to photograph because his poor hands could never do it justice. “Food?” he asks amusedly.

He could stay like this forever, he thinks, and it’s terrifying because it isn’t an exaggeration. He could stay, in this bed, with Enjolras’s eyes fixed gently on his brokenness, for _eternity_ and he’d never feel the loss.

And he feels his heart break a little because he never can.

That’s why Grantaire draws; to capture moments, scenes, faces that might otherwise be lost to time. But Enjolras isn’t replicable, isn’t something Grantaire can put to paper and hold onto forever. He’s dynamic, he’s mercurial, and he’s effervescent. Add that to the fact that he’s a fucking _god,_ and Grantaire can hardly remember why he tried.

He grimaces at the sketchbook on the loveseat and winces inwardly. How could he have dared?

But Enjolras is still looking at him expectantly, so he forces a smile—one that gains veracity when Enjolras smiles back, sunny and radiant.

“Food,” Grantaire acquiesces.

At that, Enjolras rolls out of bed with surprising energy. “Good. I’m starving.”

With sudden clarity, Grantaire remembers that the last thing he’s consumed is coffee, the previous afternoon. His stomach grumbles loudly in a request to rectify this, so he rolls out of bed and begins to look for his boxers.

He finds them soon enough, but can’t find the strength to deny Enjolras’s wicked grin, and so pulls a clean pair from his backpack along with his other pair of jeans—which he promptly throws at Enjolras after seeing the younger man looking forlorn at the prospect of fitting his leather pants over the stolen boxers.

(He is in no way motivated by the fact that Enjolras looks _amazing_ in his clothes).

His shirt is torn, so he bins it in favor of a surprisingly not-raggedy blue T-shirt. Enjolras shrugs into his red T-shirt again (earning an amused but no less heated for it kiss from Grantaire) and they’re nearly ready to go.

Grantaire’s just lacing up his combat boots, (which, they have noticed, are a match in brand and style for Enjolras’s) when he hears the shouting outside the door.

 _“¡Policía Federal!_ Open up!”

_Every gun was on us_  
 _And every heartbeat pounded_  
 _The only thing that's left to do_  
 _When they got you all surrounded_  
 _She fired that old pistol_  
 _But we didn't stand a prayer_  
 _Money hit the gravel_  
 _Bullets filled the air_

Grantaire’s insides freeze solid, and he share a panicked look with Enjolras before the other man swings into action.

“Window—bathroom—“

Enjolras grabs the backpack of money, and Grantaire his own, and they squeeze into the small bathroom as the pounding on the door goes from insistent to downright violent.

_“Open up!”_

The window remains impassive to Enjolras’s scrabbling fingers, so Grantaire balls his fist and with a crackling _smash_ puts it through the windowpane. The glass drags across his forearm, drawing sucking lines of red that begin to gush.

“R—“

“ _Go!”_ grits Grantaire, and smashes again, fumbles open the rusted outside lock, and pushes the window fully open.

With a worried look, Enjolras obeys, tossing the money out first and tumbling after, out into an alley somehow not swarming with police. Grantaire follows painfully, reflexively clutching his bleeding arm to his chest. It’s soaked red by now, no differentiation between gashes and unmarred skin except perhaps in shade.

“R, can we reach your bike from here?”

“No,” Grantaire grunts. “They’ll have seized it by now.”

“God, R, your arm-“

“I think,” Grantaire interrupts with the ghost of a grin, “that it’s time you call me by my first name.” He sees Enjolras’s blue eyes widen, and despite _everything_ he could still fall into those eyes, bloody hand and Mexican police be damned. “My name is Grantaire.”

“Grantaire.” It’s music, like every _fucking_ else, off Apollo’s lips.

“Now, listen to me carefully, Enjolras.” He sees the other man’s jaw snap shut immediately (probably for the first time in his life). “You’re going to take my jacket and helmet—no one’s seen that, so you can probably get away clean. Take the backpacks, go to the next town, or the next, and _start over._ Dance if you have to,” he smiles tiredly. “I never got to see, but…but I bet you’re damned good at it.” His hand is numb, and his vision is dimming, turning Enjolras into a still-gorgeous blur of gold and blue and red.

“R—Grantaire— _no.”_

“Apollo,” Grantaire groans.

“I _won’t.”_ And—Enjolras’s voice breaks, and Grantaire feels his heart shatter to match.

“Too late, Apollo,” he breathes. “I’ve got the gun this time.”

With a heave that sets his head spinning, he shoves his backpack and helmet into Enjolras’s chest, and by some miracles connects his lips with Enjolras’s trembling ones. It’s sloppy and a bit one-sided, because Enjolras is still protesting. It’s the best goddamn kiss Grantaire’s ever had.

He spins, staggering drunkenly towards the mouth of the alleyway. He’s never been more sober in his life. The pain in his hand has suddenly sharpened the world to an alarming clarity—or, perhaps, it’s merely the illuminating Greek god behind him.

He stumbles into the sunlight, hefts the .44 above his head, high into the air, and fires a single shot.

He’s urged on by a single keen behind him.

_“GRANTAIRE!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, don't kill me. I have also posted an alternate ending that is rather happier; but I also wanted those who needed an angst-fix to get one. I think they're both absolutely valid (because what would Grantaire consider a higher honor than dying for Enjolras's safety?)
> 
> Thanks to MeMeMe for emotional support through this; it's been a marathon--and, of course, her flawless beta work.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A resolution for those, like me, who can't handle Enjolras without Grantaire.

Enjolras stumbles along the dusty road, eyes too sore to cry further and backpack full of ill-gotten gains dangling carelessly from two fingers. Grantaire’s knapsack, by contrast, is clutched to his chest, and his knuckles are white where they wrap around the strap.

It wasn’t worth it, he thinks numbly. _Nothing_ could be worth this.

How can he consider himself free when the memory of blown pupils over blue irises and the hot leather jacket still wrapped around his shoulders in the Mexico heat hold him fast to the only _true_ freedom worth having?

Without R, he may as well be back in that shitty diner, constantly caught between fear and wanderlust.

Not R, he corrects himself. Grantaire. Grantaire of the electric eyes and sardonic smile, inky hair that tangled around his fingers and rough tan skin that splotched white and cocoa with gorgeous irregularity, like a piebald pony.

Grantaire, with the beginnings of broken cheek veins Enjolras recognized, and the loose gait of one used to being inebriated, but with a direct gaze that was sharp, sober, and clear.

Grantaire, who’d gone out painted blue and red and black, with a silver slash in his hand. Grantaire, who’d disappeared around the corner to the fanfare of gunshots.

Enjolras’s knees buckle at the thought, and as he hits the gravel both bags burst open. Cash, a mess of $1 and $20 and $100 bills, whips around him in the desert wind, but he snatches instead at the clothes and pads of paper that have spilled out of the other pack. It’s all he’s got left of the man who’d joined him recklessly, who’d followed him across the desert without question.

He hugs a torn white shirt out of the dust and buries his face in it. Beneath the smell of dirt and sweat and leather, there’s still a hint of unnameable, spicy scent.

He’d been wrong; his eyes can still squeeze out tears.

The sketchpad he’s pulled back onto his lap flips open, pages whipped about by the teasing wind. Flashes of purple and yellow, red and blue, some blurs and others painfully sharp, nearly hyper-real. It finally comes to rest on the last sheet in the pad, half-finished in smudged pencil. Long locks of hair are lovingly depicted, floating against hastily sketched-in pillows, a Greek statue’s musculature traced painstakingly that’s stretched loosely across the surface of a bed. Eyes closed, contours of a face, almost girlish in a way that defies the body it oversets—

It’s him, he realizes. Grantaire’s last, best work has been of _him._

He tears out the page savagely and flings it away, into a ditch.

 “Ow.”

Enjolras starts, following the hated paper on its way to where it rests against a rock.

No. Not a rock. A _back,_ covered in mud.

A back that’s attached to arm bound in a cloth, caked in the same mud but that peeks out blue from under the muck.

“D’ya mind? It’s been a long day,” comes quietly from the cesspool here the crumpled ball of thick paper is rapidly sinking.

T-shirt forgotten in the dust, Enjolras skids down to land beside the (impossible) man facedown in the muck.

_“Grantaire.”_

“It’s m’name…don’t wear it out— _ouch!”_

Eyes fly open as Enjolras heaves the larger man to his side. “God _above,_ R, I thought you were _dead!”_

“You weren’t the only one—ah, ah, my arm, love. Stopped bleeding, don’t start it again,” Grantaire says weakly, white teeth and pain-dulled eyes still bright against the mud.

“We’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

“No…no argument outta me,” R mutters. “Though without getting’ arrested.”

“How— _how_ did you get here? I thought you were _shot,_ I thought you were _dead, God,_ I should’ve been looking for you!” Enjolras spits fiercely, slowly but inexorably dragging Grantaire up the slope of the ditch to the road.

“Honestly, love? Don’t know. Just…terrible shots, all of ‘em, and I took off runnin’ the opposite direction you did. There was a…a grate…a sewer maybe—and then I woke up here. But not a scratch on me…from a bullet.” Grantaire sounds ridiculously proud of that fact, and Enjolras, despite himself, grins indulgently. With a final heave, the two men spill out into the road.

“Where’s your bike? I could go get it—no, I can’t leave you alone,” Enjolras babbles, and no he’s _not_ crying again because Grantaire _needs_ him right now and not a blubbering mess—

“Let’s just…let’s just sit for a minute, eh?”

Enjolras drops Grantaire next to the packs far harder than he intends to, and nearly sobs again at Grantaire’s grunt of pain. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“

“Enjolras!” Grantaire’s voice is as strong as it’s been so far. “Never be sorry for letting me help you, or for helping me.”

Enjolras blinks, because he’s pretty sure Grantaire isn’t just talking about being accidentally dropped.

Finally, his brain kick-starts, and Enjolras is, with a deep breath, able to collect himself. “A-all right, we need to re-wrap that.” He snags Grantaire’s other shirt—wet with tears and dusty but better than the one Enjolras is wearing—and replaces the muddy blue one, nearly choking on more tears when blood begins to flow again.

“You saved me.” He says instead. Because it’s all he _can_ say, and in a bout of irrational shyness he tucks his head, focusing on the tight knot that’s he’s creating around Grantaire’s forearm.

“Yeah? Well…then, we’re even.”

“Grantaire?” But the other man’s gone limp against him, and Enjolras lets out a choked scream. “Grantaire, _no…”_

He’s so focused on the closed eyes in the muddy face that he doesn’t hear the car pull up behind him; it’s only the touch of a hand to his shoulder that diverts his attention from Grantaire’s slack face.

He looks up to see a young man, a few years older than he, with a kind face and glasses and brandishing a black bag emblazoned with a red cross.

“I’m a doctor. Can I help you?”

_Never see it comin'_   
_It just hits you by surprise_   
_It's that cold place in your soul_   
_And the fire in her eyes_   
_it makes you come together_   
_Like wild horses when they run_   
_Now the cards are on the table and_   
_The bullet's in the gun_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The doctor at the end? Whatever you're thinking, you're probably right. 
> 
> Wow, it's kind of incredible that I freaking finished this thing in a timely manner; I've never done that to a chapter-fic before. Now, I'm moving on to two more AUs, one rather angsty (and yet still involving Courf in a speedo) and one for my own pure enjoyment (fashion merchandising, law-school-attending Jean Prouvaire). Watch this space, everybody.
> 
> Any feedback is, of course, appreciated--either here or at goldfishtobleroneandamitie.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me for this wild ride! I appreciate it!
> 
> Signing off,
> 
> gfaa

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the lovely MeMeMe--go read her stuff, especially her 'oh me of little faith' series.
> 
> Song used is "Bullet's in the Gun" by Toby Keith. 
> 
> If you enjoyed it, I'd love to know. If you didn't, I'd almost like to know that more, so I can improve? Feel free to talk to me over at goldfishtobleroneandamitie.tumblr.com. Thank you for your time!
> 
> -star


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